


Cat

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Category: Vagrant Story
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Animal Transformation, Community: roads_diverged, M/M, Puss in Boots Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 20:41:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6209359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To the youngest, their father left the cat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cat

**Author's Note:**

> Written for roads_diverged. Theme: Myth and Folklore [#44: Fairy Tales]

Once upon a time, there was an old man of a fine old family who had fallen on hard times. Though he'd once been the master of a great estate, the civil wars that had ravaged his country had stripped him of both lands and titles, until all that he had left was a little bit of property at the furthest corner of what had once been his. It wasn't much to speak of--a mill, a little farm--but it'd keep his lay-about sons fed and clothed after his death, at least.

The older two, that was, who weren't good for much besides mourning their fallen condition. The youngest had left years ago to make his name in the world and had never needed much looking-after to begin with, for which his father was eternally grateful. Two sons to worry over were more than enough.

So to the eldest he left the mill, or rather a portion of the profits of the mill, which was much better off being run by the miller who'd been doing so for decades. And to the next eldest he left the farm, or rather the farmhouse, with the provision that he not kick his brother out and that a room always be left ready for the youngest, should he ever stop by for a visit. As for the fields, they went on being managed the same as always by the cook and her boys, and that was enough to keep body married to breath with a little extra now and then.

To the youngest, who might actually have a chance at making something of himself, their father left the cat. Which left the cat rather put out, considering that the ungrateful boy had gone haring off to the city to join the army _years_ ago, and had been quiet as a mouse these last two years, without so much as a letter home.

"Fine," the cat said to the old man on his deathbed, "I'll find the wretched boy. But he'd best have a good explanation in mind."

A withered hand gently patted his head as the old man regarded him with a sweet, fading smile. "He always was your favorite."

"Hmph."

"Indeed. Now off with you, cat, before you scare the other two."

The cat picked himself up with offended dignity, and off he went. He hadn't wanted to stay for the end anyway; it was always so messy when humans with no close ties to the Dark went, what with the bodies to be gotten rid of, and the wailing, and the digging big holes and standing around looking awkward. Give him good, clean snowflies any day, or at least something you could eat.

Still, he would miss the old man. He might not have his son's hands, but he did give the most delightful skritches.

In the end, he didn't have to take himself all the way to Valnain after all; he found the youngest son in a fair-sized village in the nearby Greylands, put up at the town's finest inn. It was no trouble at all to let himself in after the spot of tracking he'd just done--and if a purely ordinary cat has uncanny means of finding what doesn't rightly want to be found for fear of mauling, a truly extraordinary cat is a force to be reckoned with--but the figure on the bed slept on regardless. The hissing snick, the muffled chime of silver followed by the creak of an opening door, was probably too familiar to disturb him after so many years of playing the "put the cat out for the night" game. All the same, the sleeping form didn't look very familiar to the cat, at least not at first.

The boy had grown over the years, not just taller but broader, bulging all over with muscle, when he'd once been a sleek little thing, quick as a fox in the field. Good for climbing trees with and scaring the birds, not too proud to enjoy a good bask in the sun, though disturbingly too fond of water. The boy had swum like an otter, while the cat couldn't help wondering if he'd sink now with that much mass weighing him down.

"Hmm," he said and slunk onto the bed, listening with a faint smile of amusement to the way the boy--the man--muttered in his sleep. There wasn't as much room on the bed now for them both, but a cat never troubled himself about such things. Sniffing at a sun-browned arm--and by the Lady, the man could do a proper amount of damage with those things--he smirked as the sleeper twitched and curled into a tight knot, muttering still. Perfect.

***

When Ashley woke with the dawn, he went very still at finding himself not half as alone as he'd been the night before, but considering that he wasn't dead and the other party wasn't moving, he felt it safe enough to look down. Into the sleepy grey eyes of a very pretty, very naked man curled around his lower half, cheek resting comfortably on Ashley's hip.

"Who are you," he asked very calmly, deciding he could shove the other man out of bed once he got an answer, "and what are you doing here?" He didn't remember being drunk and didn't feel like he'd been drugged, so clearly there had to be an explanation. And it had better be a good one.

"I'm your inheritance," the naked man said, lifting his head and folding his arms over Ashley's stomach, which wasn't better. "And you're a heartless wretch, by the way, for making me come this far. And for not going home to see your father off, of course. You got his letters, didn't you?"

Ashley blinked. "Father?" He had a father? One still alive--well, until recently, it seemed. He didn't remember his father's death, after all; he'd just assumed. "I...what letters?"

The blond frowned, pale eyes narrowing. "Did they not reach you? The last we'd heard, you'd made Commandant in the Kingsguard. You weren't drummed out of the army or any such thing, were you? I did warn the old man it's the quiet ones you have to watch. He forgave you for not writing, by the way," the stranger added with a little sniff to let Ashley know that while his father--his supposed father--had forgiven him, the man in his bed had not. "That's why he left you to me. Your brothers just got the farm and the mill."

"Brothers." He felt like an echo. "I don't recall having any brothers." Any minute now, he'd squirm away from this very shameless, very naked stranger. Any minute now. Just as soon as it stopped feeling so bewilderingly familiar. Worse still was the strange news he kept needling Ashley with, peppered with offhand mentions of a family he should have recalled and _still_ didn't, which made the back of his neck prickle. A good liar would have started with something smaller, something plausible, and built upon that once he'd gained Ashley's trust. This one just looked wary and vaguely angry.

"Of course you have brothers. Two of them. You were the sons," the stranger added slowly, "of the Marquis of Carabas."

"Carabas? It doesn't exist anymore. It was--"

"Gobbled up between the Church and the Graylands, yes. I know. What else have you forgotten?"

Ashley narrowed his eyes. "How do I know I've forgotten anything? You could be--"

"Have you forgotten _me?"_

Ashley hesitated, sensing danger in the bright, furious spark that lit the other man's eyes, the sudden dig of nails through the light sheet as fingers curled into claws. Did he remember this man? He would have said no, but there was something familiar about his lean weight, his warmth, his casual appropriation of Ashley's person. Strangely enough, it was the hole in his thoughts where this man _might_ have been that shook the foundations of everything he thought he knew; not just that there was a hole, but that it fit this man perfectly. Like the holes where his family, his childhood, his home should have been. How had he forgotten so much and never noticed?

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head, but that made the other man push himself up, hands braced carelessly on Ashley's stomach so he had to tighten his muscles in response, one knee poking rather uncomfortably into Ashley's shin.

"You--how could you forget your own _cat?"_

Ashley opened his mouth to protest--now that was a bit more than he was prepared to swallow--until the man who'd been oddly unconcerned by the fact that Ashley slept just as nude as he did changed shape before his very eyes, shrinking down to a sleek, yellow tom with white arms and legs and very sharp little claws, tail lashing in pique.

"My father's cat," he heard himself say hollowly, memory fluttering just outside a great blackness at the edges of his thoughts.

"I liked you best," the cat huffed as he turned back into a man, muttering so darkly Ashley wondered if the cat had revised that opinion. "And no one owns a cat."

He thought he remembered someone else saying that once, or perhaps many times--his father, laughing gently as Ashley apologized, saying he didn't know why the cat insisted on following him, why it preferred to leave rabbits by his shoes rather than turn its magic to his father's bidding. _"It's all right, son,"_ his father had said, in the same amused tone as he'd once asked, _"Can you keep a secret?"_ He'd ruffled Ashley's hair--young then; he'd been so young--and said, _"No one owns a cat. And to tell you the truth, I'm just as happy to be out of the bickering and politics. But I don't think your brothers would understand."_

Not about wanting to be free of the obligations of power, and not about the stray cat his father had brought home one day, cold and drenched and bleeding. Someone had been torturing it, poor thing, and there'd been neat, deep lines cut where white fur was traded for gold on all four limbs, almost as if someone had planned on finding a new way to skin a cat. Only the cat wasn't a cat as his father had found out first, and his brothers--both of them older--would definitely not have understood that. Or why the creature insisted on sleeping with Ashley every night, no matter how often he tried to shoo the thing out.

Sydney never could stick to a single shape when he slept, and as a human, his purr was loud enough to wake the dead.

"Sydney," he said slowly. "Your name was Sydney, wasn't it?"

"Someone called me that, anyway," Sydney said with a shrug, remarkably casual when it was his own memories in question. "I'll answer to 'Cat.'"

"But you still won't come when you're called."

Sydney smiled, a slow, feline smirk that looked natural no matter what shape he wore. "So you do remember some things, I see. But clearly, I'm going to have to do someone a mischief for this."

Ashley rubbed tiredly at the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. He was supposed to be on his way back to VKP Headquarters today, another mission gone off without a hitch. Now he didn't know what to do, but it was clear he couldn't return to Valnain. Not if it was the VKP who'd altered his mind. And if Sydney--the cat--was who he said he was....

"How did you find me?" he asked, flickers of memory seeping out of the cracks in the wall thrown up between lies and the past.

"The Dark," Sydney replied, showing off the sharp points of his smile. "How else?"

***

Though he was quietly furious, Sydney tried not to be too obvious about it. Ashley could be something of a cat himself, it was true, but he'd never been entirely comfortable watching Sydney play with mice, and that was all in good fun. But this...this went quite a bit beyond running off to seek one's fortune and taking the best lap in the house along with one. Someone had tried to prevent Ashley from ever coming back, and that Sydney wouldn't forgive. Ashley was his, his from the instant the boy looked into a basket set by the hearth and offered a wounded, exhausted cat his fingers to be sniffed and a careful skritch when Sydney began rustily to purr, almost as if he'd never known how before that moment. If Ashley had really wanted the lands and the trappings and the servants to go along with his blood, Sydney would have gotten them for him. Now he'd do it for pure spite.

"I'm going to need clothes," he said later that morning, stretching until his spine popped and falling back bonelessly to sprawl across the foot of the bed. "Boots and such," he added, lifting a foot to peer at it critically. "I don't think any of yours will fit."

"Why do you need clothes?" Ashley asked, glancing once at Sydney and just as quickly turning his back. "Wouldn't it be easier to be a cat again?"

"Not if I'm to announce the return of the Marquis of Carabas," Sydney replied, letting his leg drop to swing over the edge of the bed and sitting up on his elbows.

"You--what?" Ashley turned back with a narrow frown. "What are you talking about?"

"It's simple, really. You've already had your mind tampered with once, so who's to say they won't do it again? You need the protection of a title and the power that goes along with it; they wouldn't dare to touch a _landed_ marquis."

He expected Ashley to protest that he was the youngest, wasn't in line for the title and didn't want it anyway, to ask where he expected to get the lands he was so cavalier in mentioning. Instead Ashley said, "You don't think much like a cat." Not quite accusing, not quite questioning.

Regarding him levelly, Sydney said, "I could have pretended to be an ordinary cat for you, I think, if that was what you'd wanted. But that isn't what you want, is it?"

Why that made Ashley's eyes widen, color rising faintly in his cheeks, Sydney couldn't say. Arching a brow at the man, he huffed when Ashley turned sharply away again, rummaging through his packs despite having dressed himself a good ten minutes ago. Fine. Let him bristle and arch over stupid things. Sydney rolled over onto his stomach and considered his hands, pink and human. They always looked so strange to him, but they were adequate for what he had in mind. Even if he'd much rather have claws to back up his wits and his tongue.

Ashley stalked out without another word, but when he came back, he had clothes in Sydney's size: breeches in black leather and a waterproof cloak to match, tall riding boots, a heartlessly plain white tunic and a dark, sturdy jerkin only a huntsman could love. "This will do nicely," Sydney congratulated him, mentally adding, _for traveling._ Growing up on that farm by the mill had done the exact opposite of spoiling the man; Ashley clearly had no proper idea of how the servant of a marquis should dress. He'd been so young when the war came and sent his family packing, he likely wouldn't have remembered even without the tampering of others. Then again, Sydney couldn't remember ever asking for clothes before, despite Ashley's best attempts at getting him dressed; maybe the man thought he ought to start small and work his way up to silks and brocade.

The first real trouble they had upon starting out came before they even left town. Ashley's chocobo, being a bird, wanted nothing at all to do with a cat that walked like a man, ruffling its feathers and clacking its beak though it'd stood firm against ambush and squealing children ecstatic to see a real, live Riskbreaker in the flesh. Sydney purred to it in the voice of the Dark, but that made Ashley give him a very hard look, so he smiled up at the man with all the innocence a feline could muster.

"So? Tell me everything," he said, resting a hand on Ashley's knee. "Everything you remember."

And then, a few miles down the road in a hiss of outrage, "And who is this _Tia?"_

***

Ashley sighed to himself. Wherever they were heading, he had the feeling it was going to be a long trip.

***

The first thing Sydney did at the very next town was acquire pen and parchment, though he sat lost in contemplation for a long moment before he dictated his thoughts aloud. He _could_ read, because the former marquis had insisted, but he rather doubted his penmanship was up to the task.

The old scribe who'd died just weeks before had a neat, flowing script barely hampered at all by the increasing boniness of his fingers, though he did mutter a bit about the lack of light. Sydney wondered if the man realized he no longer had eyes to see with, but only briefly.

"New paragraph," he prompted, sitting bolt upright on the even slab of a former mayor's monument, hands planted between his feet, catlike though he was still in human form. Perched at the foot while the dead scribe stood at the head, between them they had a lovely, polished surface upon which to work. Sydney watched the letters spool out in graceful black whorls and ornamentations, grudgingly impressed. No, his penmanship had never been that good.

Not that it mattered. After the small matter of Ashley's resignation from the VKP--the death of his father, the obligations of his blood, so sorry and may we never meet again--he intended to deliver all the rest of his messages in person.

"Why, they're a gift," he said a few short weeks later, presenting a pair of jeweled figurines in the shape of running hares to a startled man of the Church. "From the Marquis of Carabas."

"Carabas." Though young, Father Grissom already wore the livery of the Crimson Blades, was wary enough or well-versed enough in history to recognize a potential enemy of the church. "There is no Marquis of Carabas."

"Well, it's true the old marquis died this past month," Sydney allowed with a shrug, watching the surprise of that creep into Grissom's eyes. All around them the bustle of the Cardinal's palace in Valnain continued uninterrupted, but Sydney tried on a slow, secretive smile, cocked his head just so, the brilliant light through the tall, peaked windows falling so that it glittered and dazzled around his person. It was excellent cover for when he injected a bit of a purr into his voice, caught and held Grissom's eyes without blinking, the way he'd freeze a particularly plump and tasty mouse. "But he did have sons, if you recall."

"You must mean the youngest," Grissom muttered distractedly. "I never heard the older two were worth aught."

"Too true. And thanks to certain...philosophical differences he's had with the VKP, he's decided the title perhaps shouldn't go to waste. Safer by far to have a 'lord' before one's name, hmm?"

"Not so safe as all that," Grissom admitted almost against his will, "but we had nothing to do with it. The Church--" Sydney pushed harder for the truth, letting his smile go sleepy and soft; it always seemed to help. "Church doesn't have...that sort of mages. The power of Iocus is meant to cleanse."

"I see. Then who did give the order to tamper with his mind, do you think? The Church and the Duke were the only ones to benefit from Carabas' fall."

"Bardorba?" Grissom scoffed, the vaguest hint of alarm beginning to surface as he heard himself spill his masters' secrets so easily. "Not him. He said to let well enough alone--'more flies with honey,' and all. What I heard was that your man couldn't stomach his orders and was planning to desert before they retrained him. Bardorba tried to get the Cardinal to protest as well--worried about appearances, I'm sure--but Cardinal Batistum said Iocus' will would be done with or without their interference."

"What a wise man. And of course, now that the Marquis is regaining his birthright--"

"Can't," Grissom muttered, fighting the compulsion laid on him, but not very hard. Not after Sydney stepped forward with a wide-eyed, innocent stare, as if hanging on his every word. "Cardinal won't ever give up the Carabas lands. Nor will Bardorba."

"Oh, I didn't mean _those_ lands. _You_ know the ones I mean. Just a short ride down from--"

_"Leá Monde?"_ Grissom offered, incredulous. Sydney almost thought he'd lost control over the man, except that the leaning away was apparently due to a fear not caused by Sydney at all. "He means to take Leá Monde? Is he mad?"

"But it's such a lovely city, don't you think?" Interesting. He'd only meant to tease out a few rumors of weak lords on shaky thrones, but Leá Monde...even the name made the Dark purr inside him, despite the muffling blanket of the Church's attempts to keep it out. As if any paling could keep a cat and magic separate.

"Aye, it _was,_ " Grissom replied, shaking his head, "before the quake. And before that madman Guildenstern took it over."

"Ah, yes. Guildenstern." Oddly enough, that name did sound familiar. Perhaps not to him, though; perhaps just to the Dark.

"A renegade churchman, much as I hate to claim him as our own." Grissom looked like he would have liked to spit for sheer outrage if they hadn't been just outside the receiving hall of the Cardinal's own palace. "He lost his wits looking for earthly immortality and fell to the Dark, to the shame of us all. No one's been able to get into the city since. They say he ran even the cultists out, but he's been no kinder to his former brethren. If your precious lord can get the better of Guildenstern, he'll have the blessings of the Church, make no mistake. And I don't think even Duke Bardorba will challenge him for that city, not after all this time."

"Ah," Sydney purred, "is that so? Then take those to your master and let him know he should prepare that blessing," he instructed, nodding once at the gift he'd brought and artfully blurring the good Father's memory of their conversation with a thought. "Leá Monde has much greater treasures, of course, for those who are her friends...and I'm very glad to hear the Church won't consider itself our enemy."

Grissom blinked, abruptly aware of Sydney's proximity but distracted by shock. "You mean to say he's already done it?"

"If your master would care to meet with my lord three days hence," Sydney offered, "he would be welcome to ride out and see for himself."

It was good to be out of Valnain's stink and crowds, better still to trade his uncomfortable finery for the practical garb Ashley had bought him weeks ago. Scarlet _boots._ He'd felt a proper idiot, brushed and beribboned like someone's prize bull to be shown at the fair. He'd have preferred a cat's fur or nothing at all even more, but if one chose to move amongst humans, one occasionally had to play by their rules. Collars and bells and things.

And not pouncing on tasty little mice in the livery of the Church, even when they squeaked so temptingly when one drew near. _Probably not very tender,_ he consoled himself as he left the gates of the city behind, licking absently at the side of his hand in preparation for a good wash over lost opportunities before he remembered he had no fur to speak of.

And anyway, while Ashley was secretly fond of the rabbits Sydney left on his boots, he was sure, he suspected the man would draw the line at knights, however tender.

***

"Wait," Ashley said, trying and failing to make sense of what he'd just heard. "You've arranged for me to meet with Cardinal Batistum."

"Yes."

"In three days."

"Yes, again," Sydney said with a smile, arranging a set of new garments across the clothes chest in their rented room. Silks, velvets, furs...Ashley would have worried about running afoul of the sumptuary laws, except that each and every piece was fully in keeping with the rank of marquis, and in the Carabas colors, at that.

Sydney _trilled_ over the fur, burying his hands in it with a lazy smile, looking like he would have started kneading out of sheer delight if pride hadn't stopped him.

"And now you're trying to dress me."

"Not trying," Sydney corrected him, "succeeding. I have it on good authority that what you see here is the height of fashion, and it's just what the Cardinal will expect to see from a man of your station."

"What station? I'm a landless deserter with a good pedigree."

"You are the Marquis of Carabas," Sydney said with a little more steel in his tone, "at least until your oldest brother tells you differently, and he won't. I'll see to that. Politely," he added as Ashley narrowed his eyes, "or was it nicely? I forget which it is you prefer."

"I'd prefer you didn't use the Dark at all," Ashley grumbled for what felt like the hundredth time. The words were starting to lose their sharpness, going resigned, like a habit he couldn't shake.

"Someone has to," Sydney replied practically, "so why not me? And I'm yours, after all; that makes me safe enough."

"Hardly that." He eyed the clothes Sydney had brought for him to avoid seeing Sydney's pleased smile. As if he'd been _complimenting_ the man. Cat. Whichever. "I think I'd prefer something plainer."

"Can't be helped." Not so much as a scrap of pity, not from that cat.

"It won't possibly fit. I'll look a fool."

" _Scarlet boots,_ Ashley. Everyone looks a fool in this stuff," Sydney said with a sniff, which didn't reassure him at all. "But it most certainly will fit, I assure you. Come, now. At least try it on."

"Can't it wait?"

"No. Now out of those clothes, before I tear them off you."

The utterly pleasant way Sydney said that convinced Ashley he meant every word, but he wasn't sure he could willingly undress in front of Sydney regardless. It'd been different when they'd both been boys. Sydney had spent most of his days as a cat as it was, acted barely human at all when he could be got on two legs, dragged hissing and spitting off to the bath or for a reading lesson by Father. Even Sydney's insistence on using him as a pillow hadn't troubled him then, Sydney being so perfectly uncivilized, utterly unselfconscious in his skin.

In that Sydney hadn't changed at all, but he'd grown beautiful, even if he didn't seem to realize it himself. Or maybe Ashley was the one who'd noticed it at last, and Sydney had always been like this. _"Can you keep a secret?"_ his father had asked, and Sydney, who would have done absolutely anything to make either of them happy, had been a secret at least one of them had taken to the grave.

"All right," he said, "I'll try it on. Do you mind?"

Sydney blinked from his kneeling place on the floor, the soft bag in which he'd carried the clothes back to the inn crumpled thoughtlessly in his lap. "Do I mind what?"

"Leaving me alone to change."

Grey eyes narrowed as Sydney's lip curled in a delicate sniff. "How foolish do you think I am? It's only clothes. I won't laugh, if that's what you're afraid of."

Ashley grit his teeth. "No, it's--"

"Oh, never mind," Sydney said, rising with a put-upon sigh. "If you're going to be like that."

For one brief, shining moment, he actually thought he'd won.

That was before Sydney pounced on him, knocking him back onto the bed and attacking his clothes with a single-minded grin and squirming easily out of his hold as he tried to still those determined hands. "Warned you!" Sydney called out in a mocking sing-song spoiled by laughter. "A cat only teases with his teeth, not his cla--"

Sydney froze all at once, a peculiar expression of stunned disbelief stealing over his face, but Ashley closed his eyes with a strangled groan sealing his throat. Sydney had draped himself carelessly over him, fingers working at the lacing at Ashley's throat though both of his wrists had been trapped and pressed against Ashley's chest. It was the knee that had found itself a place between Ashley's legs that was the problem, and the hip snugged up to incontrovertible proof that Ashley was concerned for more than his modesty.

"You," Sydney began, incredulous still. "You're _hard._ "

"I know," Ashley snapped, ready to release Sydney's wrists at the lightest tug.

"But I'm a _cat._ "

"Well, you look human enough now," he reminded, opening his eyes to glare. He'd known perfectly well that the thought had never occurred to Sydney, but did it have to be rubbed in?

Sydney cocked his head thoughtfully and didn't move. Ashley couldn't have said himself whether he was more grateful or annoyed at that, or for which reasons.

"Ah. I didn't think of it like that. So, how does this work?"

Ashley stared. "What?"

Sydney's smile grew slowly, but there was a dawning hunger in it that didn't look the least bit grateful, the least bit owned. Sydney looked like he'd found a new way to get away with something he knew he'd be scolded for, like teasing birds or sleeping on fresh laundry, and couldn't wait to try it out.

"This," Sydney said, arching into him and purring when he pushed up to meet the slide of Sydney's hips. "What's it like with humans?"

"Probably the same as with cats," Ashley managed, trying not to think about that part too hard.

"Hn. I wouldn't know," Sydney murmured between purrs, thrusting against him again. "I've never met another cat like me."

Perhaps not, but he caught on quick, which didn't surprise Ashley at all. And he wanted a bath after, which did.

"I'm not letting you try on your new clothes like _that,_ " Sydney explained in some exasperation. "Do you think I want to go 'round to the tailors again? I thought they'd never let me go."

Considering how much Sydney despised clothing in general and fancy clothing in particular, Ashley didn't argue. But he did wash Sydney's back for him, which went a long way towards reconciling the cat to the necessary evil of water.

He'd have to remember that for future reference, especially if he intended to keep this cat and his newfound knowledge at home of a night. Which he most emphatically did.

***

Sydney kept his head held high as he walked the streets of Leá Monde, wondering a little at the strange sense of familiarity, the _kinship_ he shared with the place. As far as he could recall, he'd never walked these streets before, but to be honest, he could remember very little of his life before Ashley's father found him shivering in the rain, caked with old blood and nigh starving to death. He'd been just out of kittenhood then, but that meant precisely nothing; in his human form, he'd looked maybe a year younger than Ashley, maybe two, and he'd known for some time that he didn't age like a normal cat.

He couldn't remember his own family, only vague flashes of fire and steel and a strange blue light that caught him by the scruff and sent him elsewhere. Something interrupted, something gone wrong. That choking pain that now said _paling_ to him when he would have sworn he'd never been close enough to a city warded against magic to recognize the feeling until recently. _Sounds like a battle,_ the old marquis had said the one time Sydney had haltingly tried to share what he did recall, but he'd been too young to remember the war. He knew more about humans now, and he thought the old man had been trying to be kind. What it sounded like was a coup, an assassination. He was lucky he was only a cat, beneath the notice of soldiers and their saints.

All the same, he remembered Leá Monde. Its streets, its silences, the stealthy skitter of small creatures in the rubble, its scents and the cool kiss of the breeze coming in off the sea. If he knew where to find Guildenstern, he'd know exactly which way to go, and as he tired of wandering, he forced himself to _think._

If he were a renegade knight who'd turned his back on his faith, where would he make his home?

In no time at all, he was walking up the steps to the ruined cathedral in the center of town, feeling the presence of something mad and Dark racing to meet him.

What burst from a large hole in the ceiling as he stepped into the grand entrance hall bore little resemblance to anything human. It was a strange mating of vulture wings and insect body, grey-skinned where a man's torso had been grafted to the carapace where the monster's head should have sprouted. It was the work of the Dark, that much was clear, but not driven by a rational mind. This was power twisted into knots, tangled by avarice and fear, and he might have pitied the man caught up in its net if he hadn't been so certain the man had sought out his own madness.

"Well, well," he said coolly, smiling up at the abomination with wide, guileless eyes. "And here I thought I was the only master of the Dark in these parts. What is your name, friend?"

The creature hovered, close enough that he could see the blank incomprehension in glowing gold eyes. He hoped the thing wasn't totally lost to reason; it would certainly make his task much more difficult, and he'd assured Ashley he didn't need any help--no, not even the loan of a sword.

"Guildenstern," he heard it say at last in a fractured, buzzing voice that would have bristled his tail with the sheer wrongness of it if he hadn't been armored in his human guise. Furless human bodies gave so much less away.

"Truly? But I've heard so much about you! Although you're not quite what I expected. You don't need to stand on ceremony, my friend; I won't be any less impressed if you take another shape."

The creature seemed to consider that for a moment, so Sydney smiled, unblinking, and stood just _so._

_Pay attention, little mouse,_ he purred to himself, feeling the cool, slick tendrils of the Dark spin out to twine around even this broken thing, snaring it to his will.

His own transformations were nearly instantaneous, subtle compared to the thrash of wings on vast, skeletal arms, the flash of sickly gold light that was nothing at all like the clean blue of his own power. It was rather heartening, though, to see that under the monster, this Guildenstern was nothing but a man: tall, well-made, though his thick blond hair was in shameful disarray, his once-neat goatee in need of a trim. Not too unpresentable, considering that he'd been here for years, so maybe there was enough of a mind left for Sydney to trick.

"Name me one reason why I shouldn't kill you," Guildenstern said, his human voice scratchy with disuse, and Sydney smiled more widely still.

"Because we're the same, you and I. Though I confess I'm not as dramatic as you. It's an odd thing to use the power of the Dark for, isn't it? Transformation," he added, in case Guildenstern was slow to keep up. "But very effective when one wants to be noticed."

Dark eyes narrowed, and Sydney knew he had the man, because Guildenstern was _listening._ "The Dark doesn't change just anyone," Guildenstern murmured, as if Sydney didn't already know. "Only those it particularly favors."

"Indeed. Shall I show you how it's favored me?"

"Yes. I suggest quickly."

Sydney forced a sneer into a smile and lifted his hands to loosen the lacings at his throat.

He hadn't been able to do this at first--it'd _hurt,_ and he'd preferred being a cat. And anyway, the old man hadn't liked it, so he'd...practiced a bit, until he could hold a form that looked more like theirs, pink and soft and human enough to pass.

Guildenstern stared as he stripped out of his jerkin and shirt, pulled off his boots, but the man made no attempt at protest. The former knight still had the same dazed look as any other mouse Sydney had ever charmed to stillness to be played with until they broke, and as nice as it had been to find out the same trick worked on humans, it was nicer still to find out it worked on monsters.

When he was down to nothing but his pants--so much more comfortable than all those stifling layers, and he'd never understand why humans were such fools--he tipped a smile toward Guildenstern and held out his hands, saying, "Like so."

He let the Dark take him with a curious sense of everything inside him relaxing, breathing a great sigh of relief, as if instead of forcing himself to change, he was merely returning to what he was.

His arms were jointed silver that mimicked heavy armor, just like his legs, but it was the claws that tipped each finger that had so unsettled the former marquis. He could still remember the old man's face the first time he'd changed, how his kind look had frozen, something like pained understanding flickering in his eyes. _"I think,"_ the old man had said very slowly, _"you might not want to show those to anyone else."_ And he hadn't, not even to Ashley, waiting until he got his human form _just right_ before surprising the boy.

Guildenstern looked surprised as well, his dazed eyes wide as he stared at Sydney's arms. "Silver," he said as if speaking to himself. "That's a holy metal."

"Yes," Sydney agreed, spreading his hands and smiling to himself as Guildenstern's eyes tracked them helplessly. "But what does that have to do with the Dark?"

_Closer, little mouse...come closer, now...._

"You must be very strong," Guildenstern murmured, gliding closer, step by unconscious step. "I could use someone like you. I wanted to cleanse the world, once...."

And had forgotten it, Sydney decided, after the Dark devoured him whole.

**_Mouse,_** the Dark agreed, waiting, waiting.

"Ah? Then perhaps I can help. But certainly we'll need to work on your transformations; you'll only scare the flock into the arms of the enemy, looking like that."

Guildenstern shook his head, brief confusion twisting his features. "It's the form the Dark gave me."

"But you can always ask for another. Why not practice? Nothing too outrageous," he added with a chiding smile. "Try something subtle for a change. A sparrow, or a--"

He made a rather odd, rather lopsided mouse, what with the wings and the extra limbs. But he tasted delicious all the same.

Rising again onto two legs--human and soft, the way he was certain Ashley would prefer him--he didn't bother to dress as he padded back to the open doors, staring out at the silent city with a thoughtful air. With Guildenstern gone, anything would be possible...including the Cardinal claiming this place for his own, by dint of force of arms. But where was he to gain a loyal populace in such a short amount of time? The only things left in Leá Monde were the monsters and the dead.

_Could I have them back?_ he asked the Dark, thinking the problem might not be as unsolvable as all that. After all, the monsters had flesh and the dead had bones, and where was the harm if he used the raw materials from one to fix the other?

The Dark grumbled a bit, pointing out that most of the souls it had kept inside the city had gone more than a little mad. It did have others, though, some of them old, some of them _very_ old. Would those do?

_Yes,_ he said with a smile, _I'll take them._

He repaired the bridge to the mainland while he was at it. Somehow he didn't think the Cardinal would want to go stumbling through an old wine cellar, trailing his fine vestments in the dust.

***

Feeling decidedly odd riding in the carriage of a man who'd helped himself to half of his birthright and helped unseat his father besides, Ashley stared reluctantly out the window, hoping to discourage any more awkward attempts at small talk from the man. Cardinal Batistum was ancient, older than Ashley's father had been by nearly a decade, though the years sat on him well. A thin, upright man with wintry blue eyes and a surprisingly avuncular smile, it was clear he was exerting himself to be gracious, not least of which because Ashley had been remarkably unforthcoming as to how he'd brought this Guildenstern down.

Ashley had heard of the man, of course, had heard his superiors smugly turn aside every request from the Cardinal to send a Riskbreaker after the man. It was a matter for the Church, after all; surely they didn't expect secular aid for what was essentially an ecclesiastical problem? It wasn't as if Ashley had ever so much as seen the man in person, however. Sydney had insisted the matter be left to him, and mad as it was, he trusted Sydney's feline cunning to see him through.

When they came across the first signs of human habitation, Batistum sat up straighter than before and banged on the carriage roof for the driver to stop. Looking out himself, Ashley saw a lush field of grain and a large crew of reapers pausing to eye the Cardinal's carriage and guards with some misgiving, scythes held tightly in hand. They looked surprised to a man, though Ashley noted uneasily that many of them looked surprised to be standing in a field, or that there was a field there at all.

"You there," the Cardinal called imperiously from the safety of the carriage. "Who owns this land?"

The reapers looked at each other helplessly, shuffling their feet until one found his voice at last, thickly-accented but still understandable. "The Marquis of Carabas," the reaper said...and sketched a thoroughly pagan sign with his left hand, meant to ward off any psychic ills that might come from talking with a man of the Church. Nor was he the only one; the only ones who didn't were the ones who still looked confused by the field, and possibly by each other.

"Ride on," the Cardinal said tightly, and Ashley sat back with relief. Whatever else might come up, he was fairly certain he wouldn't be treated to any more too-polite conversation he'd have to pretend to tolerate.

But Sydney was going to have a lot of explaining to do when they finally sent the Cardinal packing.

***

When, months later, the Dark called him to another deathbed, Sydney went with great reluctance, almost preferring not to go at all. There was too much to do in Leá Monde these days, and Ashley couldn't be expected to do it all, especially since he couldn't speak Ancient Kildean. Sydney, much to his own surprise, had found that he could, which helped in dealing with the city's new old residents, especially those who hadn't called Leá Monde their home in some two thousand years. Frankly, it was a wonder the Great Cathedral hadn't been pulled down the very first night.

But to be called to the Graylands, of all places...it didn't make sense, nor did the fact that he'd apparently been called to the Duke's own chambers. The man on the bed looked very old, flesh sagging heavily as if he'd once been a hearty man before some wasting illness claimed him, but there was something disturbingly familiar in those still-sharp grey eyes.

Though he'd been cloaked against mortal sight, the Duke looked up the moment he entered the room and held Sydney's eyes while shooing the servants firmly out. It was only when they were alone that the dying man spoke, through a hacking cough that Sydney thought might spare him the trouble of staying.

"So," the Duke managed when he'd caught his breath, "here you are at last."

"Were you expecting me?" Sydney asked, arching a dubious brow.

"No...not after all this time. But sometimes the Dark is kind, I suppose."

That was worth two raised brows, because in Sydney's experience, the Dark was often kind...and prickly, and jealous, and possessed of the worst sense of humor ever.

"I hear you've given Leá Monde to the Carabas boy," Bardorba said mildly, unimpressed by the narrowing of Sydney's eyes.

"It seems only fair, considering how much of his father's land you took. Or do you intend to quibble over a single city?"

"No, no," Bardorba said, waving him off though the effort appeared to cost him. "The city was always yours; so long as it's out of the hands of the Church, I don't care where you bestow it. But you've kept the mark, haven't you? I hope that wasn't foolish of you."

Sydney frowned. If he'd been in his best-loved shape, his tail would be lashing the floor. Why in the Lady's name would Leá Monde be his, and what mark was this strange old man referring to? "Mark?"

"The Rood Inverse," Bardorba replied wearily. "On your back. Did you never notice it was there?"

But it wasn't there; only when his arms were silver could it be seen, and he'd only worn that form twice. No--it must have been thrice, because he...he thought he remembered....

"You're the one who called me Sydney," he said, feeling after truth and memory like a blind man. Somehow he simply knew that his knack for mesmerization would have no effect at all on this particular man.

"If you mean I'm the one who named you," Bardorba murmured, "then yes, I suppose I am."

No. That simply wasn't possible. He didn't remember his own family, and he didn't want to be related to the man who'd caused his adopted people so much trouble. When the Duke began coughing again, Sydney merely watched, stiff and glaring. He didn't want to _be_ here. He wanted to be...home.

"You must be wondering what I was about," Bardorba wheezed at last, eyes glassy with exhaustion. "Carabas wrote to me, you see, to let me know where you were. After the attack...I'd thought you were dead, that the Blades had stolen you away as a heretic and had you burned. I just couldn't understand why they hadn't taunted me with the threat of it first. Marked as you were by the Rood, your arms...when I heard that you'd changed yourself...you have to understand. I knew he'd keep you safe. Carabas always was a man to be trusted, loyal as a dog...just to the wrong man. Never would agree," he said through a cough that shook him, painted his lips bright red, "that firstborn meant best-born. Backed the youngest prince to the end, he did."

"He never did change, then," Sydney replied grudgingly.

"No. But he did well by you." It wasn't quite a question, but Sydney chose to treat it as if it was.

"Yes. Very well." He'd given Sydney Ashley, after all. What more could anyone want?

"Good. That's--"

This time Sydney watched it through to the end, standing silent and distant at the foot of the Duke's bed. It really was awkward and untidy, the way humans with no strong connection to the Dark went in the end; give him the clean flicker of snowflies any day.

Apparently his...apparently the Duke felt the same way.

He hesitated when it was all over, wondering if there was anything else he ought to do, but he felt no particular desire to linger. There was nothing here for him anyway, and perhaps there never had been. But there was someone waiting for him--impatiently, no doubt, as more lost souls wandered in speaking in incomprehensible tongues--in a city he'd apparently been right to give away, who wouldn't care that he kept the Dark as close as he did, because Sydney belonged to him, after all. Though everyone knew you could never really own a cat.

Ashley did give the very best skritches of all, though, and that counted for rather a lot.


End file.
